psyche
by invisibly inked
Summary: the decay of—("when i wake up i'm afraid that somebody else might end up being me")—stiles


**title: psyche**

**summary: the decay of—("when i wake up i'm afraid that somebody else might end up being me")—stiles **

**notes: takes place sometime before season 3b. also, "afraid" by the neighbourhood was a pretty big inspiration for this. i suggest you listen to it.**

* * *

You do not feel like you sometimes.

And maybe that can be attributed to the not sleeping for two weeks thing, or maybe the 'committing sacrificial suicide and coming back to life thing.' You think that it's probably a little bit of both but mostly the whole dying thing (yeah, definitely the dying thing because really, who walks away from something like that completely sane anyway?).

Ever since you'd come back from death you've felt a little off, had more sleepless nights than ever before and you think back to what Deaton had said to the three of you—you, Scott and Allison— about there being a little bit of darkness left in your hearts after you'd all woken up. Somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if the other two are feeling the same way because sometimes you swear you can feel it, wriggling around in the spaces of your chest like it's trying to make itself at home and it feels like more than just a little.

**.**

You feel afraid of yourself sometimes and you really cannot explain why.

**.**

In psychology they call them intrusive thoughts.

One minute you're talking with Scott on your way to class and everything is fine and the both of you are laughing and the next you're thinking of all the different ways his blood could splatter on the floor and what the fuck—no, you don't want to kill your best friend.

"Stiles?" Scott says slowly when he notices you've stopped walking beside him, "You okay?"

You nod too quickly. "Yeah—yeah, I'm okay," you say even though you're not and Scott knows for a fact that you're lying.

(you are relieved though, that he cannot read minds)

"We're gonna be late," you say and practically sprint down the halls before Scott can say anything else.

(in psychology they call them intrusive thoughts, the police would probably say you're homicidal, everyone else would just think you're insane. you don't think any of them would be completely wrong)

**.**

The dreams are getting out of control—or, well, you think they're dreams. You aren't really sure anymore because sometimes you have more fingers than you're supposed to and other times words just stop being words and start being messes of lines and symbols that you wouldn't be able to figure out if you're life depended on it.

When you wake up you aren't really awake either, you're still dreaming. Every time you wake up it's just waking up into another dream and it's like that one movie with Leonardo Dicaprio that you thought was kind of cool and interesting until you started living it and now it's just annoying and confusing and scary.

Your father watches you count the number of fingers on each hand during breakfast but doesn't comment on it.

**.**

You are alone in a place that looks like your room. It isn't your room though, you can tell. There's something weird about it, something that seems very off and sends shivers down your spine and you think it has something to do with that door.

You get off the bed that is not yours and slowly walk over to the door with your hand outstretched in a way that makes you seem entranced and you kind of are. There's something about that door that compels you to open it, see what's on the other side even though you probably shouldn't (curiosity killed the cat after all didn't it?)

Right when you're in front of it, hand on the knob, turning _ever so slowly all you have to do is **pull**_—you are being jerked awake into reality (if it can be called that for you anymore) with your father standing over you, his hand on your shoulder and the lines on his face creased with worry, making him look older than he already is.

"What," you ask, sitting up, "What happened?"

"You were talking in your sleep again," he says. You don't ask him what he means by "again" or if this is the second or fifth or tenth time this has happened.

Instead you ask, "What'd I say?"

He pauses, like he isn't sure if he wants to tell you but you look at him expectantly anyway.

"You kept saying," he starts, "'When is a door not a door.' Over and over."

You blink a few times and think about it. It sounds like a riddle, which naturally means that it doesn't make any goddamn sense and your brain is a little too muddled to even begin to start playing detective right now.

"Stiles," your father says, his hand never leaves your shoulder, "Are you okay?"

No. I think I'm going insane. I think there's something evil inside me, something wrong with me. Dad, I'm scared, I'm so scared—

"Yeah," you tell him, "I'm good. I, uh, I have to go to school now though, so…"

You trail off, you father nods once, reluctantly, taking the hint and leaves you alone.

There is an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach.

**.**

"Now look at who're the crazy ones," Lydia says, jokingly as the four of you (you, scott, allison, and lydia) walk through the wide hallways of Beacon Hills High School.

"We're not crazy," Allison says, sharply, instantly defensive and you sense Scott kind of tense a little beside you.

"Mm-hm," Lydia hums, unconvinced, "Sure you aren't."

**.**

You are alone again, in the room that is not your room, except something is different, _very_ different.

The door is open this time.

You don't remember doing that, but you don't exactly remember locking it again either though. There's darkness in the open space where the hallway and the other parts of your house should be. It's like an abyss and you wonder, if you look into it, will it stare back at you (god, you really hope not)?

You scramble off the bed, a sudden urge—no, need to go over to the door (and what? close it? go inside?) over takes you.

Slowly you peer inside, but it's no use. You can't see a thing. If this were a horror movie you'd be the person that everyone in the theater would yell at to "n_ot go in there you fucking idiot!"_

But you can't really help yourself. Some unseen force beckons you from inside, the same one that made you want to open the door in the first place.

You draw in a shaky breath,

and you go in there.

You fucking idiot.

**.**

The door slams shut the second you step both feet inside. You spin around as soon as it happens but there's nothing there. The door is gone.

Well shit, you think, this can't be good.

You definitely regret this decision.

**.**

It's pitch black and quiet—not the calming 'sit under a tree and read a book' kind of nice quiet, but the unnerving 'there's a serial killer somewhere' kind of quiet. It's a silence that raises goosebumps along your skin and chills you down to your marrow.

Anxiety weighs in on your chest and you try to control your breathing.

"When is a door not a door?" you ask, unsure and out loud because you really don't know what else to say and the quiet freaks you out a _lot_ and hey, maybe it's a key word that'll make something happen—something _good_ like the freaking door reappearing so you can get the _hell_ out of dodge.

None of that happens though. Instead you are met with the an echo of your own words but definitely not your own voice and what the _fuck._ The voice is rough and sharp and makes your skin crawl.

It makes you stumble backwards in shock as you realize that you were wrong, you were so so _wrong,_ oh god oh god oh god—

**.**

You are not alone.


End file.
